The Officer

by Kelli Callahan

  “Damn right I am.” I nod turning away from him and pacing again. “I was faster than him and I lost him in a dark alley. And then I came back here to drop off your precious package I,” spit, “and then I went home. Then so early in the morning I’m not even fucking sure what time it was, I woke up to police sirens and pounding on my door. He’d had a dream bad enough to wake him up and check on me. He wouldn’t even tell me what it was about. But he stayed the night.”

  He groans dropping his face into his hands knowing what that must mean as a grown man.

  “I thought surely that he knew it was me. That he was there to arrest me because of you. You spineless prick,” I hiss glaring at him.

  “Lucy, call me one more fucking name,” he dares, looking up shortly raising his finger at me, “and I swear to God―”

  “You’ll what? Everything that mattered to me you took away from me last night!” I shriek my heart aching, and unable to comprehend how he couldn’t care less that I am likely facing prison and that my boyfriend, the man I love, will be gone forever from my life. “He found the sweatshirt in my room this morning dad. He knows it was me there. He knows,” I choke out, my eyes hot on his. “I’m going to go to prison. I’m going to lose a man I love. My life is over, all because you’re so incredibly selfish,” I say turning away from him unable to look at him any longer.

  He stands there for a long moment in silence only staring at me.

  “I trusted you, Dad. I trusted you to make the right decisions, to put me first because I am your child. I trusted you not to put me in danger or to use me for selfish reasons. How could you have betrayed my trust in such a way?” I gasp for air hyperventilating now. Unable to keep the ground beneath my feet I collapsed to the floor truly and completely devastated.

  “Lucy,” he says, laying down next to me and alternating between caressing my wet face and wiping the hairs from my cheek by tucking them behind my ears. I love you so much,” he says, his voice rough and full of emotion that surprises me. “I love you so much more than I can possibly say.”

  “I don’t believe you. How can I possibly believe you? All you’ve done is lie to me. I can never trust you again,” I all but whisper, folding my arms around my knees and rocking back-and-forth trying to comfort myself. It’s a calming technique I learned in my childhood. One that I obviously carried into adulthood. One that I pray I never pass down to my children. If I am young enough to have any after prison.

  “Lucy,” he sighs reaching for me before thinking better of it as he rises and walks out of the dimly lit room. I sit there for a long moment. What a horrid, horrid man. I came here scream at him and punch him in the face and all he can do is tell me I’m wrong, then tells me he loves me, and walks out, leaving me in this dimly lit apartment. I can’t stay here a moment longer. But I don’t know where else to go. I can’t go to Kenton because I can’t tell him anything. I probably need a lawyer now so I’m not sure what good it will do me. Looking up I see my father down the hall. He is digging through something, but I don’t really care enough anymore to wonder what it is. I simply close my eyes and let my thoughts drift in my exhaustion.

  Sleep comes quickly. I don’t even mean to fall asleep. It simply happens to me during times of stress. Abbie once joked that I was like a bear that hibernates but instead of hibernating during long winters in Wyoming, I hibernate for long periods of stress. And with that, I tend to stop eating too.

  Can you go through stages in quiet because of family struggles or the pressure of school? My thoughts come to me more clearly now as I realize there is a pillow propping my head up.

  Opening my eyes slowly, I blink against a haze. It’s darker out. I wonder how long I have been asleep. I sit up slowly because my head feels heavy and groggy. There is a dull ache that’s pounding between my eyes.

  “What time is it?” I groan, not wanting to speak to him but wanting to know where Kenton might possibly be at this time of day. Will he be out patrolling as usual or is he at home thinking of me?

  “It’s about 7 PM,” my father answers, sitting next to me on the floor. He’s not looking at me. His knees bend up to his chest and his arms stretch out as he twiddles his long fingers. “You’ve been asleep for about 10 hours,” he supplies, still not looking at me.

  “Oh,” I say, not really sure what to say anymore. Everything I ever wanted to say, I said to him hours earlier. I glance over at him. I can see the purple shadow where my fist met with his handsome jaw.

  We sit in silence for a moment longer as I contemplate my next move. Maybe I should try talking to Kenton. Maybe I can make him understand. I’m not a criminal. I’ve never even smoked pot. I just felt trapped. I felt like I had to help him. But I realize now you can’t help someone who doesn’t want help. Swallowing hard and raising my hands over my face, I rub my gritty eyes.

  “OK,” I say, shaking my head and rising from the floor. “I guess I’ll go. I don’t ever want to speak to you again,” I tell him, not bothering to look at him as he sits in silence. Crossing to the door my hands close around the old handle.

  “Wait,” his voice cracks, thick with emotions. “Lucy, please wait. I’ve had some time to think about what you said, and I have some things to say too.” He frowns at me, his eyes clouded.

  “I don’t want to hear a thing you have to say,” I answer honestly.

  “I didn’t ask you what you wanted to hear,” he says simply looking up at me without actually refocusing. “I didn’t want to hear anything you told me earlier. I certainly didn’t want to feel anything,” he says, rising up his hands and brushing them against his sore jaw. “But you made me listen, you made me understand. Which is why I am going to do the same thing to you.”

  Not saying a thing and not wanting to listen, I stand for a moment and watch him, wondering if I should simply ignore him and walk out. “You can’t make me stay.”

  I know this but it’s not like there is a huge rush to go shit on my name to my soon to be ex-boyfriend. “Please Lucy,” he whispers, reaching out an arm and waving to the floor next to him. “Please just sit down and listen to me. There’s a lot that I want to tell you, and I want to make sure you know these things before you walk out of my life forever.”

  Turning slowly, my feet sticking to the crappy linoleum by the front door, I cross over to the man I want to love the most in the world and sit in front of him, my legs crossing.

  “I have made a lot of terrible decisions,” he starts, looking away for me while on his feet. “Losing your mother was the worst thing that ever happened to me. She was the light of my life, she saved me when my own parents abandoned me. Boys don’t just wake up one day and decide to be drug lords,” he smiles starkly, but not actually seeing me. His eyes are too distant on some other distant memory unrelated to me.

  “My parents weren’t good people, Lucy,” he says, swallowing hard and closing his eyes. “And I’m not telling you this to make you feel like you have to be grateful for what you have or to tell you that you could’ve had it worse, because I know that what I gave you wasn’t near what you deserve. Honestly, your mother was better at parenting than I ever could be,” he swallows hard. His eyes take on a glassy look. “My father was a drug addict. He would shoot up heroin when he could afford it,” he bites out, his eyes growing hard. “And when he couldn’t, he would―” pausing and turning slowly he lifts up the back of his button-down flannel shirt exposing a barrage of circular burns.

  “What are those?” I ask, my voice shaking and afraid to know the answer.

  “Cigarette burns,” he whispers, turning away and lifting up the other side of his shirt and exposing horizontal scars. “At least, it was at first.” Still not looking at me, he went on. “My ribs were shattered and required surgery. It happened a few times,” he said sliding down his shirt.

  “Oh my God, Dad,” I whisper as my throat feels tighter. I had no idea. My father never took off his shirt in public while we were growing up, even at swimming pools or at the beach. Those
trips he always kept a shirt on. Now I know why.

  “Why didn’t anyone help you?” I ask tears brimming and threatening to overflow once more.

  “It was a different time,” he shrugs, “CPS wasn’t near the same level as it is today, and schools weren’t near as vigilant reporting suspected child abuse cases. Not that anything would have happened,” he adds, his voice hard. “Small town mentality, everybody knows everything and everybody looks the other way,” he finishes glancing up at me, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.

  “What about your mom? There’s no way a mother could allow this to happen,” my voice hollows as my father continues to stare at the crack linoleum floor.

  “My mother, if that’s what we are to call her, was no better than my father,” he states simply with a shrug. “She never tried to stop him, not once. She would just look the other way and drink herself into oblivion.”

  “What?” I say shaking my head trying to wrap my brain around this new world.

  “I found my mother dead when I was six years old. She was cold, stiff, and covered in her own vomit. The doctors said she drank herself to death. My father said I killed her.” He swallows hard closing his eyes. “For a long time, I believed him,” he admits. Now picking at a frayed hole in his jeans.

  “No dad,” I protest reaching out and resting my hand on his forearm. “Please tell me you didn’t believe that.”

  “What other choice would I as a child have?” he asks frowning at me his voice offended. “What else could I do but believe him. I lost my mother when I was so young, and I found her. And even when she was alive, there was never a show of affection the way other parents would show affection to their children. There was neglect and abuse. So much abuse Lucy,” he’s shaking his head and resting his head in his hands.

  “One of the few things I remember my mother saying growing up was how much of a strain I put on her life. When you hear that enough, when you hear what a burden you are, you begin to believe it. What else can you do? You have to believe it. And when it’s the only thing you hear, it’s the only thing you know, and every action you make reinforces that you are the problem, and you will never be enough. So eventually you stop trying,” he whispers his eyes going distant and vacant. “What’s the point in trying if none of it even matters? You’ll never be good enough, you will never be happy, or make someone else happy.”

  “Daddy,” I whisper my heart heavy and my eyes wet, “I’m so sorry, I never knew.”

  “I know. I didn’t want you to know. I wanted to protect you all from everything that I endured. I would rather die than know that I have hurt you and Abbie the way I was hurt. I am so sorry, but I have hurt you now, he whispers closing his eyes. Your mother was an angel,” he sighs with a small smile.

  “She came in to light my life and made everything better, brighter. She was so kind, so gentle, I never worried about whether or not you girls would be taken care of. I simply knew that she would be there. She was always there for me too. Your mother and I met when we were in high school. I was the angry kid in and out of in school suspension, constantly being suspended and sent home. And somehow finding myself back in the school system again. Your mother,” he smiles, “attended a First Baptist Church.” He shakes his head and laughs.

  “Hence vacation Bible school,” I laugh too and look back at the Bible on the floor. Picking it up and flipping to the first page I freeze as I see my mother’s name. How have I not noticed this before? It was my mother’s Bible. It must be one of the few things he still has of hers.

  “Your mother was breathtaking. She had beautiful long hair like yours, except hers was sunny blonde and glistened in the sunlight. She made my young teenage heart throb and if I am honest, I chased after her for less than noble reasons,” he says with a slow grin not looking at me.

  “Dad, I’ve had sex before you can just say you wanted to screw her.”

  He frowns, quickly looking up at me and shuttering. “Let’s just agree never to talk about your sex life okay because I don’t know that my tired heart can take any more trauma.”

  I have to laugh, the idea of me having sex being traumatic for him is hysterical. “Go on,” I encourage enjoying his smile when he talks about mom. “Mom was hot. You wanted to do her, blah blah blah. You were weak.” I wave my hand.

  “Yes,” he says looking over at me a little uncomfortable than looking back at the ground again. “She asked me to go to church with her one completely random day in school. I laughed out loud. What the hell would a guy like me be doing in a chapel? It didn’t make any sense, but I didn’t completely turn her down. I told her that if she kissed me I would go anywhere with her. Initially she was hesitant. Your grandparents were very religious, and honestly I think your mom was convinced kissing would get her pregnant. But she decided that saving my soul was worth the risk.” He smiles softly his eyes growing distant and a little sad but with happiness at the edges before saying, “She kissed me right under the school bleachers. My life changed forever that day. From that day on we were inseparable. And even though life at home was shit your mother made everything bearable. We spent the next two years of high school glued at the hip, and when your grandparents found out that she and I were together, they threatened to kick her out. We were 16 years old and knew absolutely nothing about life other than we wanted to spend it together. And she chose me,” he says, his eyes glassing over. “She chose me over her family, and they kicked her out.”

  “Wow,” I whisper unsure how to feel about the revelation. So did you both stay with your dad?” I ask. Uncertain and wondering how the whole thing could’ve worked out.

  “God no,” he laughs without humor. “We lived in my car.”

  “You lived in your car?”

  “Yup. It was a different time…” he hesitates unsure of how to proceed. “The world wasn’t always like this Lucy. If teenagers lived in cars, at least in this part of the world, it wasn’t as big of a deal. I got your mother pregnant in the back of that car at sixteen. I was terrified. I had no idea how I was going to even attempt to be a father. I never knew a good father and honestly your mother didn’t either. Our parents were extreme they were just extreme in different ways. Mine was extremely abusive and your mothers were dismissive and emotionally neglectful with highly impossible standards for her.” He looks so down his shoes. “I told your mother I was scared, and you know what she said?” he asks, looking up at me.

  “No,” I whisper not sure at all.

  “What do you say when you find out your pregnant in high school and you’re homeless? She told me that she trusted me. No one had ever trusted me before so that really struck a chord with me. And I knew that because she believed in me that I could be whatever I have to be to take care of my family. Her faith in me was so great that I knew it was impossible to fail. I got my act together immediately and I went to trade school,” he adds, wiping his sweating hands on his worn jeans.

  “I am a mechanic by trade,” he tells me glancing up at me again. “Though you have probably very few memories of me working on cars.” He swallows hard, looking guilty as he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “After your mother died it was more than I could bear. She was the light of my life, and everything she was, made me a better man. After I lost her, I lost myself. I should’ve been there for you girls. I should have really tried. I mean I have tried,” he adds, “all of my mistakes have been to help you guys in some way. I began dealing drugs because there’s more money in it than working on cars. I know it doesn’t look like I have much, but I do have a small fortune set aside. I was planning to pay for everyone’s college, weddings whatever,” he says gesturing towards the window as if Abbie is sitting outside. “But I got ahead of myself. I got greedy and mean. I thought that I was on top of the world and no one could touch me. Not even your boyfriend,” he says rolling his eyes.

  “So, when I was finally arrested it was a real shock for me. I felt untouchable even though I never actually did drugs. I felt a kind o
f high from being near them, but I was still able to resist the thing that made my father a terrible person. And I rationalized dealing the terrible stuff to the world because I told myself that I was doing it to help my family, even if I was doing it to help me too.”

  Rising from the floor I go to the rusty sink to grab a glass of water to bring to my father. I never thought that I would hear revelations like these when I came here this morning. I didn’t know about his horrific past, what a huge impact my mother was, and I never understood why he chose the lifestyle that he did. It never made sense to me because why would he risk everything for something with such high stakes? Now I know. he really did seek out to support our family, and really felt stronger having been able to resist what made his father into such a fucking cunt I think darkly.

  “Dad,” I call back at him, “Where his grandpa?”

  “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  I walk over and hand him the glass of water.

  “Your mom’s parents moved shortly after they found out that we were expecting Abbie. She was a huge surprise for them and a major disappointment.” Shaking his head, he glares at the floor. The idea that my sister Abbie could be a mistake or a disappointment in someone’s eyes is mind-boggling to me. “They were so ashamed that their daughter was living like a hooligan and homeless in a car, with someone as lousy as me,” he says.

  “They couldn’t believe that she would have the gall to get pregnant and humiliate them that way. As devout Christians, on the crazy side, it was just too much for them. So they left. I have no idea where they are. I haven’t bothered to look for them and I would caution you against that,” he advises, glancing back at me.

  Nodding slowly, I frown at my own glass of water.

  “And what about your dad?” I ask hesitant, not wanting to upset him but feeling like it’s something that I have to know for myself.

  He snorts before replying. “My father is alive and well. Well enough to walk back into my life and torment me in my adulthood.”